Good Enough and A Twist of Fate
by Haruka Tenou Distant Sky King
Summary: - He never wanted to be Pope; a martyr would have been good enough. Too bad Fate, and his own human nature, had other plans for him. - Patrick/Camerlengo-centric. Rated for my paranoia.


**Well, Haru here with another completely random one-shot! XD Okay, maybe not _so_ random, but still, a bit off kilter from my recent uploads... That aside, this is the first of a few "in story" one-shots which will be published alongside my main fiction,_ A Fine Line Between Love and Hate_, or as most of you may know it from my shameless self-plugging, _A Fine Line_. So, though it can be read alone, this is _technically_ Part 2.5, and happens between Part II (A Visit and a Betrayal) and Part III (Pasts and Intrusions). It shows how I've tweaked things in the movie/book (though mostly the movie, I admit...) and yet attempted to keep things as canon as possible. The writing may not _quite_ be my usual grade, but I plead the fact that the muse struck as I was watching the movie at midnight, and then wrote this primarily from the hours one until four, and then continued at five-six-ish, after only one hour of sleep. Anyways, to end this freakishly long Author's Note, I will give you the disclaimer, and let you get on to reading this fiction of mine.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the movie/book Angels and demons, nor do I own the anime/manga Sailor Moon; both belong to their respective artists/authors/what have you.  
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_**10:46PM – Papal Office – Apostolic Palace – Vatican – Rome**_

Eyes the color of a stormy sky stared at the flames. Thoughts of treachery – his own, in more ways than one – ran through the male's mind. He was, rather obviously, a priest; less obviously and more correctly, he was the previous Pope's chamberlain – he was _Il Camerlengo_. As such, until conclave had begun, he had held the power of the Pope. With the current events – three Cardinals dead, the race to save the fourth ongoing, the threat of the Illuminati looming, and Conclave at a stand-still – he was wishing he had that power once more. If he had, he would have been able to do… something, _any_thing to help and/or to implement safety measures as well. And yet, what none knew was that this was all his master plan. No, he didn't want the Papacy for himself, but he wanted nothing more than to see someone ascend Peter's throne who would show science that it did not know everything – that it could not create and thus blaspheme in the most sacrilegious of ways the Moment of Creation, and thus God Himself. He took a breath; thinking thus wasn't helping the current situation, and he knew it well. Thanking the acting skills he had picked up from long years of watching Evelyn in her plays and of observing Amara when she wore her mask of emotionlessness (or when she faked an emotion perfectly it put even the actress of their group to shame), he turned from the flames, standing as he did so.

Patrick drew close to the small knot of gathered Swiss Guards; he didn't need to fake the drawn appearance to his face, but the cunning in his eyes – something else he had picked up from the first woman he had ever loved – was well disguised. Despite the drained, lined expression he wore, he made sure that he was otherwise outwardly calm. He didn't need to be – how would Evelyn have put it? – freaking out, when he was so close to his goal, to the fruition of all that he had planned. The Guards, who had been conversing in hushed Italian, unsure of what to do next, feel silent at his approach. He spoke to them softly; once he was sure he had their full attention. Softly, yes, but firmly; he still held enough power, and retained enough of his military training to command them more harshly if need be. He truly hoped that need would not arise; Amara was the one fit for giving such orders, not him. Again, he put unneeded thoughts from his mind.

"At 11:15, if the church is still in peril, give the order to evacuate the Cardinals. But with dignity, let them exit into St. Peter's Square, with their heads held high. I don't want the last image of this church to be frightened old men sneaking out a back door. If Cardinal Mortati protests, escort him bodily. Do you understand?"

None of the Guards moved; their faces didn't even twitch. They didn't acknowledge that he had spoken. Then, one of them replied; apparently, they were a bit unsure, and this was made clear by the choice of words – if _he_ thought it was the right thing. For a moment, Patrick struggled to keep his suddenly reign fury in check. Did they think him some kind of a fool? Of course he thought it the right thing; otherwise he wouldn't have suggested it! Taking a deep breath, but not a obvious one, he forced himself to calm. Now was not the time for such… _irrational_ anger and emotion. He made sure that his face never betrayed a single ounce of his inner struggle.

"I'm certain it's the wrong thing, and I will be removed from my post for it. But I also know we have no choice." Yes, play that card… Amara had always said he was… How had she put it? Ah, yes, that he was good at "bullshitting [his] way out of things that required a steady mind and a silver tongue." A steady mind both of his best friends would admit to having, though Evelyn a bit less so than Amara, but neither could lie worth beans. The younger blonde simply turned to glass when she tried, and the elder… well, she took the Eighth Commandment – the Ninth in the Bible – Thou Shalt Not Lie more seriously then he, it seemed. Snapping his mind back to the present, again the brunette found that he was slightly irritated by the fact that the Swiss Guard did not reply.

Their expression seemed to read, "You're the boss, Signore."

With a gesture of his hand that was more forceful than needed, he dismissed them. "Please, clear the room. I would like to pray upon the matter." The Guards left quickly, and the Irishman returned to his place before the flames. This time he knelt, holding a rosary he slipped from a pocket of his cassock. It had been a gift upon his ordination three years previously, just as the cross he normally wore had been. Though neither card had been signed, he could tell who had given him what. (The song lyrics – "It started out with a kiss/How did it end up like this?/It was only a kiss/It was only a kiss" – upon one card had identified the cross as being from Evelyn, and the words – "We'll fly together again someday," – upon the second had marked the rosary as coming from Amara.) As to the current situation, his head was bowed and his eyes were closed in prayer. Of the times he had done this previously that night, now was one of the few times it was not merely a motion. He truly did pray.

He begged forgiveness for what he had done, what he was doing, and he would do.

Not everything he prayed for, however, had anything to do with the Illuminati threat he had created.

–AFL—AFL—AFL—AFL—

_**Sometime After 11PM – Papal Office – Apostolic Palace – Vatican – Rome**_

He still knelt, when Rocher entered the office. He had, however, finished his prayers; he now only contemplated his fate, and the things that had lead up to this moment. He attempted not to think of what had transpired just over forty-eight hours ago; he didn't yet have the time for regrets – if he ever would. He heard a sound behind him, and turned as the door to the papal office opened. Unsurprisingly, Rocher entered; also unsurprisingly, the Head of the Swiss Guard closed and locked the door behind him.

Patrick slipped the rosary back into the pocket he had withdrawn it from, murmuring as he did so, "Have you come to make me a martyr…?" No, he never wanted to be Pope; a martyr would be good enough.

That set everything in motion. They first, slightly calmly, discussed things pertaining to the night; then things turned. An altercation broke out; the younger man let slip his hard-fought-for control, and shouting ensued. Eventually, he moved back over to the fireplace. He contemplated it one final time – and he was sure. He needed to do this; he needed, in some twisted way, to brand himself for his own sins, and let the world know it. It wasn't just about his plans anymore, no, it had ceased to be about his plans some time ago, even if he didn't quite know when exactly that moment had occurred. And, surprisingly, Patrick found himself calmer than he should have been, for what he was about to do. "I was planning on doing this alone…" He murmured at length, seemingly ignoring what Rocher had just said, as he pulled what had seemed to be a poker from the fire, but was revealed to be a long-handled brand. He ignored the fact that Rocher now had his gun out and held at his side.

"…But perhaps it's better that you're here…" Again, he ignored Rocher and his gun, completely focused upon his task, as he ripped open his cassock. The words he whispered were lost completely in the resulting chaos, mostly in his agonized scream, when the brand – the Crossed Keys of St. Peter – was rammed upside down against his own chest, but… He had to say them, in hopes that the person – the _people_ they had been meant for would know he had voiced them. He just hoped, during the blur of ensuing agony (and both implicating Rocher as the "real" Illuminatus, and getting both Rocher and Simeon shot) that his suffering would somehow make those words so much less inadequate than he so painfully knew they were.

"_I'm sorry…"_

–AFL—AFL—AFL—AFL—

He was vaguely aware of directing things, even as his wound was cleaned, quite glad that he had long ago become proficient in appearing present and engaged in a conversation, and yet not really being so in truth. He noticed the attention that Langdon was paying Rocher, and was glad that the man seemed to have other, more important things to deal with; thus, the symbologist looked away before he could take not of the key in the hand of the Head of the Swiss Guard. _'Heh, perfect,_' the brunette managed to think, through the haze of pain, even as he played along with unraveling a mystery he himself had created. _'They'll never suspect it… and without anyone knowing about that key, or those blasted cameras; they'll never have anything concrete, even if they do come to suspect.' _And then, as bandages were wrapped tightly about his bleeding torso – God in His Heaven, this hurt; he could only imagine what it must have felt like for Amara, to bind herself completely flat every single day – Patrick lead the way, and Vetra and Langdon, down to where he had ordered the canister with the antimatter placed.

He had originally planned, once everything else was said and done, to simply allow the batteries to be replaced. That would then allow Conclave to continue – since the revised and then re-revised plans fit much closer with his originals than he had expected – with the election of a Pope who would see the threat science posed. He had never intended to deviate from his plans; he had never intended to change anything after this point, unless it was completely unavoidable and/or completely necessary. And yet, as the saying went about the best laid plans of mice and men… He had failed to take into account that he was still human, and that, when Vittoria was so focused upon what she was doing… When she had seemed detached, even as she questioned if it were cold there, down in the Necropolis at the current time of 11:53, almost completely, one-hundred-percent focused upon her work… He hadn't counted on seeing Amara's face, the same detachment upon it when she raced; hadn't counted upon seeing Michelle's, her eyes blank but her face placid as she played her violin for an audience of thousands; hadn't counted on seeing Evelyn, expressionless but expression, emotionless but emoting, as she acted to perfection, or drove home her team's win on the soccer field… He hadn't taken into account the fact that he was guilty beyond words for how he had hurt them all… And that that guilt, coupled with seeing their faces as clear as day in his mind, had changed his plans drastically.

Patrick snatched the canister, and ran. He ran up and out of the Necropolis, back up the stairs from the Grottos, and through the long nave of St. Peter's basilica. By the time anyone caught up with him, he was shoving his way through the crowd towards the helicopter that he had originally ordered for the escape of the elder, more infirm Cardinals. It seemed he would be needing it, tonight, rather than they. Something gave him pause, however, but only for a moment – a flash of ice-blue eyes and pale blonde hair; Madrid-tanned skin, and a plaid shirt and jeans combination that only a certain one of his best friends would have dared to wear to a place like this, at a time like this. And then she was gone from his sight, vanished into the crowd again, and he was once more focused upon what he needed to do. He couldn't have repeated what he told the pilot – "Roberto, there's an emergency; I'll take her up alone!" – in the hours that followed, but he was glad he wasn't either numb enough, or in enough pain currently to have forgotten his years' worth of flight training. And as he looked down at the crowd for all of another moment (when had he suddenly gotten into the air? Maybe he was on autopilot just as he had thought…) and saw that bleach-blonde head once more, those bright, icy blue eyes. And then he only saw the night sky, as he piloted the helicopter straight up, going as fast as it would allow.

Ever higher the helicopter climbed. Patrick knew, instinctively, when it was high enough for him to safely parachute out of it; he redied a parachute, but didn't yet jump out. He ignored the steadily more incesssent beeping and flashing red light from the canister – the bomb – that told him he had less than two minutes to make up his mind about what he was going to do. He postponed his choice for a moment, crossing himself and murmuring one final prayer. Whatever happened next, nothing would ever be the same again. He lifted the cross to his lips, and kissed it. To anyone else, in any other situation, this would have been a simple gesture, an _expected_ one, given his station and the motion itself. However, in that moment, he wasn't just pressing his lips to the cross he held.

He was kissing _her_, one final time – rather, for the second and last time.

_Evelyn_.

He was acutely aware of the rosary in his pocket, now pressed close by the parachute he had strapped on.

_Amara_.

Even as he parachuted out of the helicopter – which was now climbing on autopilot – he knew he couldn't die here. Even if only for the reason that he was sure one or both of them would have then resurrected him just to kill him again themselves… He didn't register how long he fell, or how far; not even the few different times he bounded off of and collided with the roofs of the buildings in the Vatican reached him at that point. He was falling fast, tangled in the cords of the parachute as he was, and unconscious at that; it was no surprise he didn't feel any of his ribs snap or fracture, or feel when the aftershock of the antimatter explosion hit, or notice when he all but crash-landed into St. Peter's square. He came to only when everything was all said and done, laying amid a huddle of worried pedestrians off of one side of the square. He thought he saw a flash of white-blonde hair and ice-blue eyes for a moment, but this was quickly gone from his vision, as he was helped up and escorted quickly to the medical wing.

At that moment, he thanked God numerous times for the numbness he felt – had felt, in truth, since the visit with Amara just over fifty hours ago. He found that fact strange. Just fifty hours… So much had happened in such a short span of time… It seemed as if he had seen the racer a lifetime ago, and yet he could recall what he had done in stark, painful detail. Strange… but a good deal of things were strange that day and that night, weren't they, so it shouldn't, honestly, have surprised him. He was quite grateful, when he was injected with the morphine; he wasn't sure if he could have dealt with the pain of having his ribs splinted, along with having all of his other wounds seen to. In all truth, he was a bit preoccupied with the beeping he was trying to forget. The beeping of the canister, in those last few moments, had been all too like the sound Amara's heart monitor had made, when she was comatose for three days following the surgery to cybernetically replace her leg. He pushed those thoughts from his mind, when a Swiss Guard approached, the uniformed male offering him a salute. It seemed that the Cardinals wished to speak with him, but for what… His brain, already numb, was slightly fogged by the morphine, and couldn't process why they would want that. He could simply nod, and request for the nun attending him to clean him us as much as possible; one didn't go into the presense of the College of Cardinals bleeding and bruised, after all. And then he requested a second shot of the medication numbing the pain. He could already tell that this would be a very long night, whatever happened.

–AFL—AFL—AFL—AFL—

As he approached the doors, Patrick was sure that he should have felt something… more. Some sense of trepidation, some curiosity… He certainly felt the latter, but only in a small amount. His plans had all gone so awry from the original intent by this time that they had all but been tossed from his mind. After all, there was no possible way on God's green Earth that they could know what he had done… Could they? No. He wasn't going to think about that now, lest he drop to his knees and confess himself totally and completely, and then ruin everything he had worked for this night. Stopping a moment, just at the bottom of the stairs, he took a breath to calm himself, just as he had so often seen Evelyn do before her first cue in a play, or Amara just before a race. Feeling himself sufficiently calm and in hand, the steel-grey-eyed male proceeded up the stairs and to the doors which would lead him into Conclave, and into the presence of the College of Cardinals.

What happened, when the doors were opened, wasn't what he had expected at all. He stepped in, finding total and complete silence there to greet him. For a moment, there was only the sound of the doors closing behind him, to fill the still void within the room. All eyes were on him; he could just feel it. Resisting the urge to fidget nervously from foot to foot – this wasn't oral finals in high school, damn it – the Camerlengo finally murmured his query, breaking the silence. "W-Why…" He broke off, swallowed, began again. "Why have you called me here, Signori?" He made sure to keep his voice neutral; at least that much of his facilities. What he received in response had his mind racing a mile a minute, until it finally stopped dead in its tracks, only one conclusion able to be made. It wasn't possible, and yet… it was happening all the same.

"_Patricus… Patricus… Patricus… Patricus…"_

The repetition of his name raced around his brain like some demented litany. From his suddenly frozen mind, only one explanation issued forth. Only one could be found or given, in all honesty. It was none other than Romano Pontifici Eligendo, Numero 63. Better known as Acclimation by Adoration. For one moment, he couldn't quite belive what was happening. But, as the wounds he had sustained were still paining him – perhaps the morphine was wearing off? – it couldn't' have been a dream. A nightmare, perhas? No, nothing good ever happened in nightmares… At least, not to him, as his nightmares usually involved his father's death, his mother's death, what had happened to Amara during their time in the military, or what had happened when they were fifteen (well, he was fifteen, she had been seventeen). Actually, come to think of it, most of his nightmares involved either Amara or Evelyn in some manner, so the possibility of this being a nightmare was then quickly shot down.

At that moment, everything that had happened in the past few days came crashing down, and Patrick crumpled to his knees, having passed out dead to the world.

He got the feeling that, if he ever woke up, a certain pair of blondes would be plotting his murder, most likely for his own stupidity…


End file.
